


With a Cherry on Top

by Divergence



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, First Time, Flirting, Fluff, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-27
Updated: 2014-04-27
Packaged: 2018-01-20 23:32:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1529834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Divergence/pseuds/Divergence
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pub. Alcohol. Sherlock does something interesting with a cherry. Smut ensues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	With a Cherry on Top

**Author's Note:**

> After marrying a Brit, and spending some time in England, I learned that local pubs do not always offer a menu of mixed drinks that we would consider standard here in the colonies. I imagined Greg’s local would be a casual pub, with nary a cocktail to be found. But, in an effort to make Molly comfortable, he picked a different pub for the evening. One that had cocktails. With cherries.
> 
> Fluffy flirting, followed by smut.

-1-

“Here’s to a good day!” John shouldered his way through the press of people at the door of the pub, hearing Greg before he saw him. Greg looked over and waved at John, “John! Over here, mate!”

John smiled; it looked like Greg had a bit of a head-start. “Nice kit you have there, Greg,” John said.

Greg grinned and smoothed the front of his red and white shirt. “Gotta show your support, you know.”

John sat down on the bench next to Greg and leaned across the table, “Hi Molly, didn’t expect to see you tonight.”

“Oh!” a faint blush tinged Molly’s cheeks. “I just… I … I didn’t mean to invite myself…” she blinked furiously. John slanted his eyes at Greg and saw a similar shade of red creeping up his neck. _About time these two did something_ , he thought. “No worries, the more the merrier, right?” Molly smiled.

John stood up. “I’m going to grab a pint, you two want anything?”

The next hour passed pleasantly enough, despite the tension between Greg and Molly. John found himself drinking just a touch faster, he didn’t question himself too closely, but he suspected he was envious of the two of them. They seemed well-suited to each other, and John had nothing but a lengthy string of failed relationships behind him. Recently, every relationship had ended with accusations about his relationship with Sherlock: he spent too much time with Sherlock, he put Sherlock ahead of everyone else, and one spectacular argument where John was told in no uncertain terms that he was in denial.

He wasn’t in denial, he knew very well that his world had come to revolve around Sherlock. The question was what to do about it. If anything. John snorted to himself, and drained his third pint. Getting a little tipsy, he noted. Because he was pining over Sherlock Bloody Holmes, no less. Tragic.

“And what’s His Nibs up to tonight, then?” Greg suddenly asked.

John looked at Greg blankly. “Don’t know. I gave up asking him to come out. He doesn’t do pubs.”

Greg smiled, “Just as well, can you imagine –“

“You are aware, Lestrade, are you not, that you do not actually play for… whatever team that is?” a deep baritone rumbled beside John.

“Christ, Sherlock!” John yelped. “Give a man some warning, will you?”

Sherlock straightened and quirked a half-smile, pushing his hands into the pockets of his coat. “Hello, Molly,” he said.

“Oh, hey,” Molly said weakly. _Sherlock has that effect_ , John thought.

“Ta, mate, for pointing that out,” Greg said good-naturedly. “Have a seat.”

Sherlock leaned into John, bumping him with his hip. “There’s a chair right there, you know,” John said, waving vaguely. Another jostle; John sighed and shifted to make room on the bench. Sherlock dropped into the vacated space and gazed around the pub. “What’re you doing here, Sherlock?” John asked.

“Bored,” Sherlock drawled, biting off the ‘d.’ “Thought I’d observe you in your… natural habitat,” his lips curled disdainfully around the last two words. John rolled his eyes, uncertain of Sherlock’s mood.

“How did you know where we were?” John wondered.

“You arranged it in front of me, John,” Sherlock said patiently.

“Right. That’s right,” John frowned. “Well, you’ve got another thing coming if you think you’re gonna sit there and _observe_ me all night. You’re lurking like some great… lurking thing.” Sherlock raised a brow. “Exactly,” John nodded with conviction. “Go get a drink.”

“Would that make you feel better?” Sherlock asked with a smirk.

“Yes. Definitely. Go,” John nudged Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock stared at John, but John absolutely did not look at Sherlock. No way. Sherlock shrugged off his coat and stood. “Very well.”

John dropped his head back, hitting the wall with a thud. _Why? Why does he show up now, when I’ve been thinking…_

“Some power you’ve got over him,” Greg mused, wide-eyed.

“Whaddya mean?” John stuttered.

“Sherlock Holmes, in a pub. I may buy a lottery ticket,” Greg winked at Molly. Molly giggled and swirled her drink.

“He’s just bored,” John rationalized. “No cases for the past few days. You could help with that, you know,” he looked at Greg hopefully.

“Sorry, mate,” Greg said understandingly. “Nothing on at the moment. That we need him for, I mean. Better you than me.”

“Ta very much,” John muttered.

Another pint was unceremoniously deposited in front of John, followed by Sherlock sliding onto the bench. John looked over and saw three glasses on the table in front of Sherlock. “What –“John started to ask.

“I’m catching up,” Sherlock said dismissively. “Is that not what people do? You’ve had three pints, in an hour, no less, a touch faster than usual, we shan’t concern ourselves with the reason for that, I have provided you with one more. I won’t drink that,” he said tapping John’s beer with the back of his index finger, “I will drink this,” he gestured to the glasses in front of him. John stared at the glasses, unwilling to ask how Sherlock knew the details of his alcohol consumption. “Whiskey, John,” Sherlock said expansively. “Doubles. Seems more efficient.” With that, Sherlock threw back his first drink.

John goggled. This night was heading off the rails.

Sherlock leaned across John and studied Greg and Molly, his gaze flicking between the two. They were deep in their own world, apparently no longer worried about including John in their conversation. Sherlock opened his mouth, and –

“Stop it,” John hissed, grabbing Sherlock’s knee. A frission travelled up John’s arm at the contact. _God, he’s warm_. “Whatever you’re going to say, don’t. Leave them be.” Sherlock glanced down at John’s hand and settled back in his seat.

“Whatever do you mean, John?” he asked, his face the picture of innocence.

“Dumb doesn’t suit you, Sherlock,” John said under his breath, his hand still on Sherlock’s leg. “Let them figure it out.” He took several gulps from his pint.

Sherlock quirked his lips and knocked back his second shot. “Fine,” he shrugged dismissively and pushed the empty glass next to the first. “Anything for you, John.”

John tried to hide his consternation with a sip of his beer. _If only he knew what ‘anything’ actually meant._ A giggle almost escaped, and John covered it by coughing. “All right?” Sherlock enquired.

“Yep. Yes. Fine,” John managed, taking a gulp of beer. “All fine. All of it. Completely.”

The corner of Sherlock’s lips quirked, but he said nothing. Ignoring John for the moment, he leaned over and eyed the cocktail in front of Molly suspiciously. “Seems a bit up-market for you, Lestrade,” he needled. “Cocktails?”

Greg grimaced and took a gulp of his beer. “Yeah, well, it wasn’t always like this, was it?” he grumbled. “Competition,” he waved his hand in the direction of the front door, “sports bar or something. Out there… somewhere. So… cocktails,” Greg leaned back in his seat.

“This isn’t your usual place, though,” Sherlock pressed. “Different tonight. Why is that, I wonder?”

“It’s nice,” Molly defended, toying with the stem of her glass.

“Ah,” Sherlock said with satisfaction. “It becomes clear.”

Greg blushed up to his ears; Molly looked uncertain. Sherlock retreated and stretched out his legs, lazily leaning back against the wall.

“God’s sake, Sherlock,” John whispered angrily. “I asked you to let it go. Stop pretending you don’t know what’s going on, you know very well what’s going on, so just, you know…” words failed him.

“John,” Sherlock’s voice was a caress against John’s ear. “You said to not say what I was going to say. I stopped. Didn’t say it. This time I was merely making conversation.” John closed his eyes and smelled whiskey, spice, plus something undefinable that was simply Sherlock. John shifted his hips and tried to _focus_.

“You don’t make conversation,” John hissed. “Find something else to do.”

Sherlock smiled, and it was terrifying. “As you wish.” He draped his arm over the back of the bench behind John, shifted slightly so that his legs were firmly pressed against John’s, and leaned forward yet again. John froze. _What the hell?_ This time, Sherlock reached across the table and plucked the maraschino cherry out of Molly’s drink. “You don’t need this, do you, Molly?” he asked.

“N-no,” she replied uncertainly.

Sherlock took the cherry in his long fingers, twisted until the stem popped off, and dropped the cherry into one of his empty glasses. Prize in hand, he leaned his head back against the wall, and closed his eyes. Slowly, precisely, he placed the stem in his mouth. John simply stared, he shouldn’t find this so fascinating, why was this so fascinating? Part of his brain registered that Greg and Molly had not resumed their conversation; they were also fixated on Sherlock.

Sherlock hummed, then began moving, pressing his lips, flexing his jaw, hollowing his cheeks. Muscles in his throat alternately tensed and relaxed as he rolled the stem around his mouth. No efficiency here, this was a show, this was a performance. “Christ,” John breathed, not realizing he said it out loud. _It’s pornographic_. This was… this was dangerous. Nobody existed except Sherlock, John felt the heat of Sherlock’s arm behind him, was acutely and uncomfortably aware of Sherlock’s legs against him, and watched helplessly as Sherlock continued to minister to the cherry stem. John tore his eyes away from the detective’s perfect mouth to travel down his long neck, into that smooth ‘v’ of pale skin between those two buttons that Sherlock should just have removed from his shirts because he never did the damn things up, why can’t he just _cover_ himself for God’s sake –

Sherlock’s eyes popped open and he stuck out his tongue. There, in the middle, was the stem, tied into a perfect knot. He sat up, keeping his eyes on John as he plucked the stem off his tongue and placed it on the table. His lips spread in a wicked smile. “How was that for something else, John?” he purred, challenge etched in the quirk of his brow.

John tongue had a mind of its own, and it poked out to wet his lips as he stared at Sherlock. Desire thrummed through his body, he was vibrating, he should say something, but he feared his voice would give away more than his body already had. Chaos reigned in his mind, thoughts whirled and danced – _is this an experiment, a joke, can it be, is it possible… does Sherlock want me the way I want him?_ He heard Greg clear his throat behind him. “Hey. Um. We’re gonna head out. I’ll see you home, Molly, yeah?”

“Sure. Great,” Molly squeaked. “See you later, guys.” In a flash they were gone, no further good-byes requested or received. John didn’t blame them, if it was possible to sink into the floor, he’d be gone too.

Sherlock leaned towards John, leaving his arm on the back of the bench and placing his other hand on the table in front of John. Mere centimeters apart, his storm-cloud eyes pinned John where he sat. John’s breath hitched, and he put every ounce of effort he had into holding still. _He’s the cat and I’m the mouse_. Abruptly Sherlock leaned back, humming with what sounded like approval. He stood, grabbing his coat and easing it on in one smooth motion. “Come, John,” he said, ignoring his final drink. “Let’s be off, then.”

 

 

 

-2-

Sherlock behaved distressingly _normal_ during the cab ride home. He sat near the window, looking out at the London streets, absently tapping his fingers on his thigh. He didn’t speak and neither did John – what could John possibly say after the pub? His thoughts lingered on the heat of Sherlock’s body pressed against his, the jolt he felt when he touched Sherlock, and the cherry stem... god, that cherry stem. _What else can he do with that tongue?_ Suddenly there was much less space in his trousers, and John quickly shifted his body towards the window. _Don’t let him see, don’t let him see_.

The cab pulled up in front of 221B Baker Street and Sherlock hopped out, leaving John to pay. John was too dazed to complain, and practically threw money at the driver, unwilling to fuss with change in his current state. He caught up with Sherlock and followed him up the seventeen stairs to their flat, noting the continuation of completely normal Sherlock behaviour, and pointedly ignoring the feeling of disappointment that curled in his stomach.

Once inside, John waited while Sherlock took off his coat and carefully hung it on his hook. Expecting Sherlock to move aside, John stepped forward – and promptly lost his balance when Sherlock whirled and pushed him against the door. Sherlock grabbed John’s wrists and pinned them above his head, wedged his right leg between John’s legs, and swooped down so that his lips rested near John’s ear.

“Had I known that would be successful in attracting your attention,” he breathed, “I would have done it much, much sooner.”

“Wha-“John choked.

“Cherries, John,” Sherlock drawled. “Cherries.”

John wasn’t nearly drunk enough for this; he’d wanted this since he first saw Sherlock at St. Bart’s.

“Holding two opposing thoughts at the same time,” Sherlock’s voice, dark and velvet, caressed John’s ear, “cognitive dissonance.” He scraped his teeth lightly against John’s neck. “I know you want this, John Watson. I see, I have _observed_. You watch me. And I have been,” he placed a hot, wet kiss against John’s neck, “so,” another kiss, “patient.” John moaned and tilted his head to get _more_. Sherlock pulled away and rested his forehead on John’s, breathing heavily. “Tell me to stop and I will,” he whispered.

John let out a ragged breath. “Don’t stop. God. Just. Don’t.”

John felt rather than saw Sherlock’s smile. John’s left wrist was released, and Sherlock brought his right hand to cup the back of John’s head. A beat of heady anticipation, and Sherlock leaned in to press his lips to John’s, tenderly, gently. John keened, his embarrassment at the sound he made quickly subsumed by _want_ and _need_. This wasn’t enough, it wasn’t _enough_. John opened his mouth and swiped his tongue against Sherlock’s lips, rocked his hips forward, looking for more pressure, more friction. He felt Sherlock’s sharp inhale, and Sherlock’s lips parted, their tongues twined around each other, smooth and slick. John moaned and leaned forward, grabbing Sherlock’s waist with his free hand, straining against Sherlock’s hold, trying and failing to get more contact. Sherlock responded by tightening his grip on John and deepening the kiss; it became messy, a clash of tongues and teeth. Both men were gasping now, hungry, frantically moving lips and tongues, separating briefly to suck in air before diving back.

Sherlock broke the kiss with a final nip to John’s bottom lip, braced his forearms on the door, and pressed his entire body against John, moving and thrusting to provide delicious friction to them both. John gasped and threw his head back, hitting his head on the door, not caring – both of them were still fully clothed, and he was going to come in his pants like a teenager if he couldn’t find a way to move this forward.

John squeezed his shaking hands between them to try to undo Sherlock’s shirt. He wanted – he _needed_ to run his hands over Sherlock’s bare skin. Abruptly, before John could undo a single button, Sherlock stepped back. Sherlock’s eyes blazed, pupils wide and dark, surrounded by a sliver of molten silver. John paused, his intentions forgotten, Sherlock was a sight to behold. Tousled dark curls, perfect pale skin, ridiculous cheekbones tinted with the flush of arousal, and those eyes… “You’re beautiful,” John gasped. “Gorgeous.”

Sherlock smiled, the kind of honest smile that was reserved for John. Keeping his eyes on John, and with the grace of a danseur, Sherlock sank to his knees. John made a strangled noise and pressed his back into the door as hard as he could. He had imagined this, he had fantasized about this, but he had never truly expected it to happen. Sherlock’s long fingers made quick work of John’s belt and trouser fastenings, and John was suddenly exposed, trapped by his trousers and pants around his ankles. John’s cock jutted up, aching, with pre-come glistening on the head. Sherlock stilled, and with his hands lightly resting on John’s hips, nestled his head next to John’s cock. John felt Sherlock’s hot breath gusting over him, the sensation and the promise overwhelming his senses. He slammed his palms flat on the door behind him, and stared down at Sherlock, struggling to keep still, legs quivering. Every ounce of his being wanted to grab Sherlock’s head and _take_ , but he clenched his hands into fists and waited.

Sherlock looked up at John through half-lidded eyes, pupils blown with desire, and John whimpered. Sherlock’s eyes crinkled, enough to give the impression of a smile and finally, _finally_ , he gently took the tip of John’s cock into his mouth. Slowly, Sherlock swirled his tongue around the head, occasionally dipping his tongue into the slit. John bit back a moan, it was wet, hot, perfect, he _wanted_ , he _needed_ … “Sherlock, please,” he begged. One more circle of the tongue and Sherlock wrapped the base of John’s cock in his fist, sinking his mouth down until his lips met his hand. “Christ,” John swore. Sherlock hummed, the vibration sending shockwaves through John’s body. Sherlock began a slow, firm rhythm, pumping his fist in time with the up and down movement of his mouth. John couldn’t help himself, his hips bucked and Sherlock immediately raised one arm to brace against John’s stomach.

“Sorry –“John gasped. Sherlock shook his head slightly and dropped the hand that was fisting John’s cock, palming himself through his trousers. Sherlock groaned, lowered the arm that was across John’s stomach, then swallowed John’s cock entirely, his nose bumping into John’s abdomen. “Sherlock!” John cried out, undone, lost in the shock and pleasure. Sherlock reached up and grabbed one of John’s hands, placing it on his head, giving permission. _Take_. John dug his fingers into Sherlock’s curls, gripped his head, and began fucking his mouth, agonizingly slowly at first, scared to hurt him. Sherlock straightened his arms and braced himself with his palms against the door, humming an encouragement. Emboldened, John began rocking his hips faster, pushing forward, pulling Sherlock’s head closer, lost in the rhythm. “God, Sherlock, yes, perfect…” Nobody had ever made him feel like this, every nerve-ending John had was on fire. He watched, fascinated, as his cock sank fully into Sherlock’s mouth, over and over, each stroke building the heat and pressure in his abdomen.

Suddenly, Sherlock’s eyes snapped open, and he met John’s gaze. The contact between them was raw, almost painful, and John felt the beginnings of his orgasm. “Sherlock –“ he stuttered, trying to pull away, but Sherlock followed him, kept his mouth on him, and John came with a shout, his cock pulsing, pouring his come into Sherlock’s throat. He felt Sherlock swallow, and swallow, taking everything John had to give, and fuck if that wasn’t the sexiest thing he’d ever seen.

John’s chest heaved as he tried to get oxygen into his starved lungs. His knees gave out and he slid down the door, sank to the floor, unaware. He took several ragged breaths, then looked over and saw Sherlock lying on the floor, propped up on one elbow, trousers undone, stroking his cock underneath his pants. John licked his lips and folded his legs underneath him, ignoring the restriction of his trousers and pants in favour of getting to Sherlock faster. He leaned into Sherlock and kissed him, tasting himself. “Let me,” John murmured, tugging on Sherlock’s trousers.

Sherlock lay back and raised his hips, allowing John to pull his trousers and pants down to his knees. John lay propped over Sherlock and licked a stripe up his neck, nipping under his ear. Sherlock moaned softly. “You are,” John sighed, sucking Sherlock’s earlobe into his mouth, nipping, releasing, “ _amazing_.” John reached down and lightly dragged his fingers up the length of Sherlock’s cock. He ran one finger through the pre-come gathered at the tip, then raised his finger to his mouth and sucked. Sherlock stared at John, breath hitching. John flattened his hand and licked it thoroughly, ensuring it was as wet as he could make it. John claimed Sherlock’s mouth in a messy kiss while reaching down and wrapping his hand around Sherlock’s cock. He began a slow rhythm, pumping up and down, with a maddening twist at the top.

Sherlock groaned into John’s mouth, his hips jerked. “Tell me what you want,” John rasped.

“I –“Sherlock arched his back. “John. Please.”

“Dealer’s choice, then,” John teased, tightening his grip on Sherlock’s cock and quickening his rhythm.

“Yes. John. Anything,” Sherlock was incoherent, his hair a mess, face and neck flushed, eyes shut, chest heaving. _Absolutely gorgeous_ , John thought. “John,” Sherlock groaned, “I’m close… I need… I –“

John smiled and wiggled down Sherlock’s body, sinking his mouth over Sherlock’s cock, keeping the rhythm with his hand. He hollowed his cheeks and sucked, loving the response from Sherlock, the gasps, the shaking. “John –“John felt one of Sherlock’s hands weakly push on his shoulder. John ignored it and took Sherlock as deep as he could, holding the base of Sherlock’s cock tight and sucking a final time. Sherlock stilled, then jerked his hips forward, cock pulsing, shooting come into John’s mouth. John struggled to keep up, he wasn’t as good at this as Sherlock, but he kept swallowing until Sherlock relaxed and released a long, shuddering breath.

John sat up and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He watched with a smile as Sherlock’s breathing slowly calmed. When Sherlock seemed somewhat recovered, John leaned forward and gently placed a kiss on Sherlock’s lips. “Come on, then,” John said quietly. “Let’s get somewhere more comfortable.”

Sherlock kept his eyes closed and sighed. “Come on, you great lump,” John laughed. With no small amount of pushing, pulling, arranging and complaining, they ended up re-clothed and on the sofa. John lay horizontally, his upper body propped against the armrest, while Sherlock stretched out between John’s legs, and rested his head on John’s chest. John draped one arm across Sherlock’s chest, and stroked Sherlock’s hair with his other hand. They lay peacefully together, relaxed, drifting.

“Sherlock,” John said quietly.

Sherlock hummed, settling himself more firmly against John’s body.

“Next time, do you think we could make it to the bed? I’m not as young as I used to be.”

Sherlock chuckled, a deep, satisfied sound. “As you wish, John.”

 

-FIN-

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first explicit fic. Hope you enjoyed it, and thanks for reading!


End file.
